Usually, Memorial Day weekend ushers in the summer season, fishing rodeos and festivals. Spirits are high and the whole island is buzzing with life.

The beaches are crowded with sunbathers and young children playing in the sand. Every boat slip is rented and bait shops can barely keep up with the demand. Charter services are booked months in advance. Fresh shrimp, fish and crabs are hauled in daily by the ton. Bars and restaurants overflow with vacationers.

"This is the weekend that encourages you for the rest of the summer, " said Frank "Paco" Besson, who owns a daiquiri and souvenir shop. "It's when we make our money -- and gauge how the rest of the summer will go."

It is also the weekend of the Speckled Trout Rodeo, which draws more than 1,000 fishers to compete for the title of Louisiana State Speckled Trout Master Angler.

"See that spot right there?" said rodeo board president Bob Levin, pointing to the bridge from the deck of the Bridgeside Marina. "When you come, that's where you leave your stress."

But now, the weight of the world has been dumped on the tiny stretch of island. The beaches are eerily deserted, the waters void of boats and businesses near empty. The people smile, welcome you, offer you a beer, because that is who they are. But just beneath, there is plenty of fear, uncertainty and heartbreak. Storm-weathered and sturdy men well up, their tears held back only if they don't talk about it -- the oil -- for too long.

"Our paradise island is shot, " said Police Chief Euris Dubois.

PHOTO BY KARI DEQUINEIt was too late to cancel, so the annual Speckled Trout Rodeo on GrandIsle went on -- -fish or no fish.

This year, the only businesses experiencing incomes at the same levels as previous holiday weekends are the motels, invaded by the disaster-mitigation work force. BP, federal and local government and privately contracted employees fill the beds, but not local stores and restaurants, residents said.

For Besson, it's a pretty sorry gauge for what is to come. "We should have had people here all week, " he lamented.

The money for the rodeo had been spent, so the board decided to go ahead with the only event still possible -- a night of food, drink, music and dancing.

"This is a positive note, " said marina owner Buggy Vegas. "We decided we would keep all the plans we had before."

They decided, amidst a crisis, to do what they could to support and uplift the community.

Proceeds from the rodeo are usually invested in various charitable efforts on the island. This year's cause was beautification, adding palm trees to line the beach. "I've got $6,000 worth of palm trees and nowhere to put them, " Levin said.

Vegas, whose marina was destroyed in Katrina, was finally starting to recover after the recession.

But this weekend, the slips were empty and sales were way down.

"On Tuesday, I will have to wake up and face it all again, '' he said.

By nature optimistic and laid back, residents' positive-thinking abilities are put to the test. They were tested in Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. And again in Gustav and Ike.

But this oil, many say, is much scarier than a hurricane.

"We build back up and then get knocked down again, " said trawler Noel "Notch" Camardelle. "The older people can't do it for much longer -- they're stressed."

During what would normally be his busiest, most profitable time, Camardelle hasn't been able to shrimp. "How many times can people get beat down?"

"I accept the risk of Katrina by having a business here and living here, " said Daryl Carpenter, who owns a charter boat service on the island and is the president of the Louisiana Charter Boat Association. "I can pick up a saw and hammer and fix my house.

"This I can't fix. That's what makes this so hard to swallow. I knew what it would take to rebuild after Katrina. I don't know what it will take after this. No amount of stubbornness will get your business back."

Carpenter employed a 21-year-old deckhand who earned enough money last summer to pay his college tuition. BP gave the young man $1,000, but now it is likely too late to apply for scholarships.

ELLIS LUCIA / THE TIMES-PICAYUNESpilled oil gets over containment boom and is then trapped in the marsh near Pass a Loutre in lower Plaquemines Parish on Sunday.

Carpenter is also concerned about the false perceptions and the "national hysteria that our fish have two heads and three tails." If the waters reopen, he is worried about the challenge of communicating the realities to perspective clients.

But for most, the thing that they are afraid of losing runs much deeper than money, recreation or even livelihoods.

They are afraid of losing their culture, their heritage and their future.

"I worked 50 years of my life to retire in Grand Isle. I want to enjoy the last years here, " said Levin, who is among four generations of oil industry workers.

Speaking of his deep love of fishing, he said he's tempted to fish and pay the fines, releasing the fish, of course.

"I'm 72 years old, " he said. "I don't know how many years of fishing I have left."

He also has a 1-1/2-year-old great grandson. "Will he get a chance to fish on Grand Isle?'' Levin asked. "You can't replace that. That part of my life is being taken away from me."

As the evening of festivities began at the Speckled Trout Rodeo, the turnout appeared strong. Plates were full of roasted pig, pastalaya and white beans, and people were genuinely happy to be in the company of family and friends feeling the same heart-wrenching emotions.

But it wouldn't be long before word spread that the top-kill approach to shut off the leaking well had been abandoned.

It was another punch in the stomach, another dagger to the heart.

"I hate this. I really hate this, " said Larry Edgin, who was visiting from Baton Rouge to show his support. "There's people hurting here. I love this place. It's my getaway. There are really great people down here."

Edgin said instead of the $5 required meal ticket, he gave a $50 donation. "I can't spend it on bait, " he said, with a melancholy laugh.

Andrea Lambert watched seagulls dive around the eerie stillness at the edge of the marina, once busy with fishermen, cleaning their catch.

"They're conditioned, " Lambert said with sadness in her voice, as she described the dolphins and their calves that also would swim up to the dock for treats.

Lambert has been coming to the island ever since she was a young girl. She said that she hoped people would still come and appreciate what it offered.